Some find god in a church.  Others say they find it in the eyes and laugh of a child.

I look for god in the space where breath meets before a kiss.

I haven’t found him, yet.


I bet you’re loads of fun at parties

“I was going to invite you — and then I started thinking — how would people respond to you? — They’d say later, ‘she’s fascinating,’ and I’d say,” and he chuckles, shaking his head as though “fascinating” is a mistaken sentiment for a correct assumption, “she’s a whole lot of woman — be careful, man.”  It’s a rare time I’ve heard someone refer to me to another person as a woman, so I’m still grinning as we sip our drinks across from each other and he tells me about the people he knows, the ones I would meet if ever I’m invited.

So, I get to thinking, as I’m sitting in my room alone, while I’m riding the train with headphones, or as I’m reading a book at a table somewhere — everyone’s so great at being careful that I’m never invited to parties.

highs and lows

He shrugs that the only difference is happiness.

Marked by a foam topping of calm

on the surface of everything he was already

He’s still there, he says.

With a smile from soul to sole and a verse he hums

absently, he says that the revisions please him.

And sure, his low is lower than before

but his high is higher too.

Isn’t that what love does?


I do not know how to tell him

he’s changing.

That he says the same words

does the same things

but he moves just a fraction differently.

Like he’s itching for a fix.

And nothing    and no one   else

can alleviate, gratify, or pacify

the thirst pulsing in his pores

And I don’t know how to scream

at his happiness

that the problem with new boys is

they can do no wrong in his eyes

to his body      to his heart

and so he doesn’t even know it’s happened

until they’re lost boys   gone boys    far boys

and he’s cleaning up scrapes

and washing off dirt

they didn’t just leave on his skin.


He thinks this feeling is happiness

but there’s a grimace  across gaunt cheeks

and he says he doesn’t feel quite well.

collecting dust

He said, if anything, I’d collect lighthouses.
I didn’t have to ask why those cold, cracked, waiting and forgotten representations of longing.
I got it.

So, I began collecting feathers.
Almost a full set of wings, now.
I won’t be waiting around.
I could fly right after you.

I could.